


and darling when the morning comes

by sudowoodo



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Cute, First Kiss, First Love, Fluff, Innocent, M/M, Richie POV, Sleepovers, Summer of '89, Wholesome, Young Love, bed sharing, hand holding, sexual (?) tension, slightly angsty in a twelve year old kind of way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23318530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sudowoodo/pseuds/sudowoodo
Summary: Richie’s mom had long since given up reminding him to sleep on the floor when he had guests over. Richie knew it was probably wise. Not for politeness — fuck that shit — but other reasons entirely. But it would be weirder to change something like that all of a sudden, to draw attention to the fact thatwe’re not kids anymoreandwe’re growing upandthings are different nowbecause what was so different anyhow? Him and Eds, Eds and him — the two great ol’ buddy ol’ pals. What exactly was going to happen if they just — ha ha — you know, shared the bed? What was the best that could happen?The worst — he meant.What was the worst that could happen?
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 24
Kudos: 254
Collections: reddie for me





	and darling when the morning comes

**Author's Note:**

> _And darling when the morning comes_  
>  _And I see the morning sun_  
>  _I wanna be the one with you_  
>   
>  \- Bill Withers, 'Just the two of us'

Eddie was already asleep. On his back, arms splayed up around his head, legs akimbo. First he’d been quiet, then twitchy, now breathing soft but loud beside Richie in Richie’s bed. Richie’s mom had long since given up reminding him to sleep on the floor when he had guests over. Richie knew it was probably wise. Not for politeness — fuck that shit — but other reasons entirely. But the first time he’d suggested it, reluctantly, Eddie’s eyes flew open and he accused, “What? Why?”

“No reason,” said Richie, backtracking quickly. “Just, like, what if I mistook you for your mom in the middle of the night and slipped over to cop a feel—?”

He leaned over and made kiss noises at Eddie, who growled and chucked a pillow. Richie laughed and threw one back. Eddie slapped it down, suddenly horrified. He inhaled sharply and raised his hand. “Your mom changed the sheets, though, right? Cuz I swear, Richie, if there’s anything crusty or cheesey or, like, anything remotely—”, he started to gag, “ _moist_ —”

“Jeez, man, of course she changed them!” Richie threw back the sheets and smoothed them out, flourishing wildly. “These are Eddie Kaspbrak approved linens only! I keep ’em special. We’re talking ninety degree heat, baby. Only the best for our Eddie Spaghetti.”

“What — really?” asked Eddie, suddenly wide-eyed and — god help him — _excited_. By fucking _laundry_. Why was Richie friends with this guy again? 

Richie nodded seriously. His mom had yet to find out that he’d turned up the dial on the washing machine. “It kills the germs.”

“It does,” said Eddie, almost teary, hand clasped to his chest. “It really does.”

He smiled at Richie, lips closed at first, then curling up over straight white teeth and laughing, and Richie remembered. 

_Oh, yeah. That’s why._

Richie lay down and beckoned mock-seductively for Eddie to join him.

“This is weird. You’re being weird.” Eddie looked down at the sheets, crisp and freshly-laundered, the faint smell of detergent seeming to comforting him. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “But — fine. I guess it’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine. Not remotely fine. The bed was getting tight for two pre-teen boys, sweaty under a single sheet, arms brushing, feet kicking. Tops to toes was worse, their feet usually reeking from stale water shoes and socks damply drying. So, shoulder to shoulder it was, or butt to butt. Never face to face. Nor face to butt, as in — god forbid — _spooning_. Even butt to butt was a bit…

It wasn’t unusual for them to sleep over, just the two of them, the invitation carelessly unextended to any of the other losers. Richie wished he could say it was because their moms were especially good friends, or because they lived close together, or for some other convenient reason beyond their control. 

But, really, it was because they were Richie and Eddie.

It was no secret they were best friends. In a group of seven, it wasn’t weird for there to be sub-groups. Or sub-couples. Not even like _couple_ couples, just pal couples. Just guys being pals. You know, like how Ben and Bev showed up late — Mike even later. Himself and Stan had the whole Jew thing going on. Eddie and Bill had been closer, maybe, a couple years back, when they started building the dam, that time Richie and Stan showed up and gen one of the losers’ club was born. But now it was Richie and Eddie, the best of best friends. 

It wasn’t even _weird_. 

So it wasn’t weird if sometimes Richie just called over to Eddie’s and the two of them hung out reading comics above the garage, and it wasn’t weird if at some point Richie, kicking himself for always needing to run his mouth off, blurted out to ask if they shouldn’t go call for the others, and it wasn’t weird if Eddie would scrunch his face up and say, like, oh I think Bill said something about not being around today or somethingand Richie would be like, oh, OK, cool, just the two of us then.

(It wasn’t weird if he was secretly happy about that either.) 

He might burst into song then, _just the twoooo of us_ , and try to throw himself over Eddie, and just while he wondered why the fuck he was so eager to draw attention to the exact thing he wanted to keep hidden, Eddie would smack him and beam at the floor, eyes round and cheeks kind of pink, and it would totally be worth it.

The sleepovers were some next level torture, though. Eddie’s mom always had a meltdown and yet Eddie always hissed down the phone at her to _NOT come get me I’m fine I’m fine I’m just here at Richie’s okaaayy_ and then hung up and came back to the dinner table grinning through clenched teeth and laughing slightly, and Richie pretended not to notice.

Richie didn’t really know why it was worth the trouble to Eddie, especially when all they did was get stuffed animals thrown at them by Richie’s kid sister while trying to play the Sega (that little bitch had _such_ a crush on Eddie, Jesus Christ it was so fucking obvious), or that one time Eddie almost fainted when he found the jar of questionable liquid underneath Richie’s bed (which was fucking gross, admittedly, totally Richie’s bad), or the fact that Eddie had to force himself to sleep cramped up in Richie’s sweaty bed, in Richie’s stinky room, in a house that Richie supposed wasn’t really all that spotless, probably, since both his parents worked all day and there were like five fucking kids running around. But it would be weirder to change something like that all of a sudden, to draw attention to the fact that _we’re not kids anymore_ and _we’re growing up_ and _things are different now_ because what was so different anyhow? Him and Eds, Eds and him — the two great ol’ buddy ol’ pals. What exactly was going to happen if they just — ha ha — you know, shared the bed? What was the best that could happen? 

The worst — he meant. 

What was the worst that could happen?

Well, the worst was definitely that he’d, like, wet the bed or have a sex dream or accidentally spoon Eddie in his sleep and get a boner or something. Like, that last one wasn’t even so unlikely, really, because that thing was popping up all over the place these days. But that was _normal_ , actually, so it was fine — and his dad even told him that it can happen _anytime_ , anytime at all — not just when a pretty girl walks by, or when looking at the lingerie pages of his mom’s glossy magazines, or when things are getting hot and heavy in the movies. You know. It can be totally random too. Like, even worse than random, really. For example, in the boy’s locker room, or in a hammock with his best friend, or in bed… also with his best friend. Like. It was so totally random and normal and it was just… yeah. 

He was _normal_.

But it’d gross Eddie out for sure if that happened. And it was kind of super risky and Richie couldn’t figure out why he was risking something this huge just to sleep beside his best friend in a bed too small for them and yet. 

And yet?

Well, Eddie had wanted to, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he seemed like he wanted to?

It really didn’t make a lot of sense to Richie, so he’d really rather not think about it at all. So now he was here, no turning back, and Eddie was asleep beside him. It was like sleeping next to a fucking furnace, alright, no joke. A furnace that was breathing loud and getting just about ready to start snoring, he reckoned, but growing quiet again and smacking his lips softly every once in awhile. Richie wondered briefly just what the fuck he’d do if _Eddie_ had a wet dream — if he started making _real_ noises, gross noises — and jeez Louise, he didn’t even know if Eddie was, you know, _taking care of himself_ yet. Because surely he’d hate it, right? Think it was dirty or something. He was always going off like _har fucking HAR_ at Richie’s jokes and scoffing like he was all mature — more mature than masturbation? ayuh, hardly — so maybe he did. Or maybe he didn’t. Richie thought himself pretty safe, anyhow. He jerked off enough these days that he’d probably never be that pent up again in his life. Not even if, like, some super hot girl was lying beside him. 

Or, like, his super cute best friend.

…

Well. Whatever. It’s not like he was sleeping anyway.

Eddie had sprawled right the fuck out, the asshole, arms up on his pillow, so staying shoulder to shoulder was really risking getting an elbow in the face anytime soon. Richie turned on his side instead, facing Eddie, scared he’d roll right off the bed if he turned the other way. So now he was looking directly at Eddie’s hand, palm up, fingers curled slightly, lying on the pillow next to him. Those hands were usually darting around like little bottle rockets, small, tanned hands with short, straight fingers. It was weird seeing them so relaxed on the pillow, Richie thought, except it wasn’t that weird because Eddie did _sometimes_ loosen up, and sometimes his wild gestures were more fluid than sharp. He liked to think Eddie loosened up even more when it was just the two of them, their bickering becoming more banter-ish and light. Playful. _Affectionate_. 

Ugh, gross. 

“ _Just the two of us_ ,” he sang quietly, all breathy and croaked in the dark. He held his breath. Eddie didn’t move. Didn’t respond. He never would anyway. 

_We can make it if we try…_

Sometimes Richie didn’t feel like going out, not even with the losers, because even with the losers he was always doing some dumb bit or some dumb voice, and, yeah, it was a bit, it was a voice, it was a _mask_. But he didn’t have to do that with Eddie. He could relax with Eddie. 

He hoped Eddie could relax with him too.

Fuck fuck fuck.

He loved the losers, every single one of them. Loved them like family, like life, like… like fucking love, you know? But he _liked_ Eddie. He liked the round apples of his cheeks when he smiled and the freckles on the apples; he liked the way his head tilted back sometimes when he laughed, cackled almost, just the once, and other times when he laughed so hard, bent double, that it turned to wheezing and he’d puff his inhaler, eyes watery and still laughing as he met Richie’s gaze, shaking his head and clamping his mouth shut, too stubborn to admit he’d actually enjoyed the joke at all; he liked when Eddie went apeshit feral and bashed him around, let Richie thrash him back, how he giggled and squirmed if you even _tried_ tickle his armpits, but would scream bloody murder and kick you in the face if you shoved a dirty sock into his. Richie knew all of that, and did all of that, because it was the most fun to make Eddie laugh and the most fun to rile Eddie up. It was the most love he knew how to feel. But it was also the most terrifying thing in the world to admit to himself that this was an entirely different sort of love than what he felt for the other losers. He liked Eddie. He loved Eddie. He was in love with Eddie.

“Fuck,” Richie whispered. Talk about castles in the sky!

Eddie still didn’t wake, chest rising and falling gently. Richie sat up slightly, turning to the bedside table to snatch up his glasses, and turning back to stare at Eddie in the dark as he shoved them onto his nose. He looked so dumb, mouth hanging open, light snores occasionally rumbling through his throat. How the fuck was Richie supposed to sleep in these conditions anyway? He wanted to smother Eddie with his own pillow.

Reproachfully, he glanced at the hand resting there on the pillow where his own head should have been, sleeping peacefully. Palm up. Fingers slightly curled. It was basically _asking_ to be held, that hand. Jesus Christ it was a slutty hand, a very slutty hand indeed. He glanced at Eddie’s face again, and grimaced, cursing slightly to himself as he reached over and slid his trembling fingers over the palm.

Eddie jerked, then gave a low scream, then karate chopped Richie’s head.

“OW! _Fuck_ —”

“WHAT THE—”

Richie shushed him, trying to grapple him to clamp a hand over his mouth, but Eddie was writhing like a mo’fucker and quietly screaming.

“ _What the fuck?_ What’d you put in my hand?”

“N-nothing!”

“What’d you— _Richie!_ ”

“What?”

“You put something — oh, I mean it, Richie, if you tried put my hand in a water glass or some shit— if you tried put my fanny pack in the fucking freezer — make me wet the fucking bed—!”

“I wasn’t trying to—” Richie burst into laughter before he could finish.

“It’s not funny!” Eddie quietly screamed, his voice crackling hoarsely. “What’d you put in my hand, Rich? Fucking tell me—” He was already clambering over Richie, not quite punching, but shoving, for sure, and Richie just silently laughed his ass off and let him. Eventually Eddie jerked up and hopped off the bed, searching the clothes-piled chair for his fanny pack and squirting hand sanitiser generously into his hand. 

“Rich, Richie, just fucking tell me,” he whispered, clambering back onto the bed and grabbing Richie by the collar. “If you put some disgusting fucking thing in my hand—”

“It wasn’t…” Richie sighed, then laughed tiredly, wiping his arm across his face. “It was my hand, dumbass. It was just my disgusting fucking hand.”

“ _What?_ ”

Richie didn’t say anything. He could probably brush this off like an accident. They were asleep, idiot, their hands just brushed together, totally not on purpose. Why so defensive anyway, Eds? What the fuck was that about, huh?

Eddie was still kneeling beside him on the bed, and in the dark there was some light from somewhere glancing just ever so softly, so warmly off his brown eyes, off his tanned skin. Lips pursed closed, brow straight and low. Fucking fuming, so he was. And he was so fucking cute when he was angry. 

Richie stared at him, mouth hanging open slightly, and said absolutely nothing.

Eddie blinked. “Richie? Rich — you OK?” He snapped his fingers fast in Richie’s face.

After a moment, Richie shook him off. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I am weird.”

“You’re being _quiet_.”

Richie gnashed his teeth together. He had no response to that.

“You—” Eddie laughed, “Were you tryna hold my hand or some shit?”

Suddenly, Richie thought he might puke. He almost literally fucking retched, but he swallowed it, and then he thought, wow. That’s one helluva reaction! Funny how the thought of holding a boy’s hand should _really_ make you wanna puke, huh? But instead it was the thought of the boy _finding out_ you want to hold his hand that did it. 

Damn. He didn’t feel twelve years old anymore. He felt ancient as hell.

“Yeah,” he said, rolling to one side. “I wanted to hold your hand and shit.”

“What—” Eddie paused, clearly thinking over what to say, and then quickly realising he had no idea how to respond to that. “The fuck? Don’t do creepy shit to me while I’m asleep!”

Richie’s eyes widened and stung hot. For a moment, he was speechless again. No joke. No comeback. No self-defence. He was at the arcade again, and some cute stupid boy was calling him _that_ , and Bowers was, and everyone there, but this time it was _Eddie_ , it was his best friend, it was—

“I mean, jeez — at least wait ’till I’m awake.”

He said it so fast, Richie barely caught it.

Richie couldn’t move. What was that? What the fuck did he just say?

He rolled over suddenly, staring at Eddie. Eddie stared back, then his eyes bugged out and darted around. 

“ _What?_ ” Eddie demanded.

“You mean it?”

“What?”

“I can… I can do it?”

“I mean…” Eddie sucked in a breath that sounded oddly raspy, then he puffed a few exhales, steeling himself. “ _Yeah_.”

Richie threw himself back down onto the bed, gazing up at the ceiling. “Huh.”

Eddie glanced around, adjusted the pillow slightly, and lay down carefully next to him. For a moment, it was just like that — just the two of them, two pounding hearts, four overworked lungs, and the cacophony of darkness between them. Then, without looking, Eddie inched his fingers over, and Richie’s stumbled to meet them, and then they snatched up each other’s hands and gripped tight with a vengeance before the fear could take the moment away from them.

Richie’s hand was sweating like crazy. Eddie squeezed his fingers a little too hard. They grinned at the ceiling in the dark like two big, dumb idiots. 

Idiots in love.

“Hey,” whispered Richie loudly. “Wanna make out?”

“Oh, shut up!”

Eddie turned his face away, shaking it. Richie’s stomach turned a little, but erupted into butterflies as Eddie turned back and bumped his lips briefly against Richie’s cheek. 

Richie’s whole body seemed to buzz with excitement. He shot over and pressed his lips against his best approximation of Eddie’s, who giggled and pushed him off. Richie fell back down next to his friend, warm in the face and beaming. He glanced at Eddie, saw the dim light glancing off his teeth, and knew he was smiling too. 

Hours might have passed — or minutes, or decades — before Eddie’s breath grew slow again and his hand starting twitching in Richie’s. Richie extricated his sweaty fingers and tugged his glasses off, dropping them on the bedside table. He let out a sigh, still smiling, and turned on his side to watch his best friend sleep. Maybe it was creepy, but who cared anymore, whatever! He’d just have to wait for the morning sun, so they could do it all over again.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally getting around to finishing off a few things, so have a kid Reddie fic in this trying time! Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm also on [Tumblr](https://sudowoodo-writes.tumblr.com/)!


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